The most awkward gig you’ve been to…

Any ideas for the most awkward gig you’ve been to?
Sometime in the early 2000’s, on holiday in North Devon, Mrs. L and I went to see Suzanne Vega at the Queen’s Theatre in Barnstaple. Mrs L was a big fan and I liked a few songs, so all seemed set for a good holiday gig.
Accompanied only by a bass player, Vega started with a couple of nicely stripped down songs which seemed to go down well. However, she then made her first announcement. “It’s so nice to be here in Cornwall, (confusing Devon for its next door neighbour) I’m looking forward to a cream tea.” Now for an American on tour I guess this was an easy mistake to make and I would have cut her a lot of slack for it, hoping she might have used humour to make the best of an error but there was no chance of that. There was a slightly awkward murmur, and a loudmouth a couple of rows behind shouted out in an irritated and pained voice “Oh NOOOOOO, you’ve got it wrong, this is DEVOOOONNN!!!” Now Suzanne Vega can come across a little School Marm-ish at the best of times, but her response (“WELL! So sorry, I stand corrected”) followed by a prolonged glare into the wings did not help the general joie de vivre. Another song was started, which subsequently ended in somewhat muted applause. Unfortunately, in the brief silence during a quick tune up that followed, the previous heckler, in a loud, entitled and very clear voice, took the opportunity to shout out “Can we have some songs without the bass player?” Evidently Vega hadn’t quite heard and asked him to repeat what he’s said, which he did, now very happy to do so and at even more middle class volume, as if addressing a errant Gardener on his estate. Many in the crowd turned on him at this point, with accusations of rudeness and general invitations to shut up being offered. Suzanne and the bassist had a quick conversation off mike, the outcome of which was that he put his bass back on its stand and he walked off, Vega presumably having said let’s shut this idiot up. Cue the heckler starting to clap. I lost my temper a bit at this point, telling him that if he wanted his own private concert he should pay for the privilege and organise one, earning a little applause myself. The idiot just shrugged at me, a smug little grin on his face. A couple of songs were done completely solo before the bass player was invited back again, Vega asking the heckler if this was OK with him. The set continued as planned but perhaps unsurprisingly the rest of the evening never really took off after that.
Now, this was relatively polite and I have been to gigs with far angrier exchanges than this, (not involving me I should add!) in fact they may even have added to the event. I think my point is that it doesn’t always take much to shatter the spell of performance. Anyone else had any similar experiences?

Not quite as good a story as that, but early on in my gig-going I saw Altered Images at the Manchester Apollo. Vic Godard and the Subway Sect were supporting. Or rather the band came on and one said ‘ Hi we’re the Subway Sect, Vic’s not here’ and proceeded to play the entire support set as instrumentals. They did not look happy.

Probably Keith Jarrett. A combination of spring hayfever and squeaky seats made it a trial for the audience.

He spat the dummy early on and we were all holding our breath and not moving. After interval, someone must have mentioned the hayfever prevalent so KJ made some conciliatory remarks about acknowledging that, but still ….awkward. I doubt I’m alone on the blog having experienced the tyranny of Keith.

Another time I was in London for work staying near Hyde Park. There was a wine bar around the corner and Dana Gillespie was playing. I think I was the only one who knew who she was and one of the few listening. I was up the front and after a song, I said to myself, or so I thought, “come on, you’re not even trying”. Anyway, she must have heard coz if looks could kill I’d be dead. She glared at me as she performed the next songs, no better IMO, just as perfunctory. Anway she won, I couldn’t take the heat and left.

In the mid sixties I ran the school Folk Club. Cue lots of earnest spotty teenagers with Dylan caps trying to play more than one chord and failing. I wrote a letter to Tom Paxton who I knew was coming to Aberdeen soon. In those innocent days of course he wrote back and of course he was happy to come along to our after-school club and play a song. This made the local newspaper and a few weeks later I was asked by one of the swanky hotels in Union Street if I fancied organising a series of Saturday night folk gatherings in a tiny upstairs room.
With visions of becoming the youngest impresario in history my first concert involved a couple of hopeless amateurs but amazingly headlined by the then almost-famous Martin Carthy. The crowd numbered at least thirty three and around nine o’clock ( we were getting chucked out at ten in those near-prohibition times) Martin stumbled on stage ( ok, more of a three inch high plywood platform) obviously the worse for wear.
He tuned up for about twenty minutes all the time telling us that his girlfriend had just broken up with him. He tried several times to start a song but drunk and tearful rather got in the way. He reached down for another whisky, fell off his stool and collapsed in a heap on the floor still sobbing.
Thirty two angry Aberdonians demanded their money back, a scuffle broke out and blood was spilled. The hotel manager virtually flung me out into the street and for some strange reason my impressario days were well and truly over.
Martin apparently spent the night in police cells but was released without charge.

(a) A Fun Lovin Criminals gig in Reading in 199something. A couple of songs into the set some numbnuts lobs a plastic cup at the stage and manages to hit Huey on the head. He is not amused and makes some comments over the PA that I can’t follow. The band play the rest of the gig on autopilot and Huey does not say another word to the crowd all night. I expected him to dive into the crowd and tear the guy a new bumhole – he would have had plenty of help, but instead we all got sulked at.

b) Reading Festival – 1977 – a sea of mud and a rather tricky rock and punk cross over bill, that sees Ultravox! alongside Aerosmith and Eddie and The Hot Rods on just before Uriah Heep. Earlish on Sunday morning Wayne County and The Electric Chairs attempt to strut their stuff, although opener “Cream In My Jeans” seems not to be sitting to well with the denim and leather brigade, and the cans and mud start to fly. Initial attempts to brazen it out – “if that were real shit you were throwing we could get into it” – just encourage the knuckledraggers and by song number 3 – “If You Don’t Want To Fuck Me Baby, Fuck Off” – the end is nigh. Bad form all round.

Once saw Lemmy storm off stage for exactly the same reason. ‘I haven’t worked in this business for thirty years to have plastic fucking glasses thrown at me’ he stropped. Refused to come back on as well and the police had to be called to persuade 1000 heavy metal fans to go home….

They’re doing Worthing soon which seems to have a niche as a place bands mostly play on their way down, which is a shame as someone in the venue is clearly making an effort to book something other than end of the pier stuff.

It was indeed The Hexagon – Late 80s I would think. Were you there? For Thames Valley Police it was all their Christmases come at once. And their cup truly ran over when they arrested the drummer for giving some verbals back to a disgruntled fan as the band left the building, resulting in his spending several hours in the nick.Rock and roll,eh!

I’ve mentioned before that I saw Kim Ritchey play an an art gallery in Paris – tiny place – after the larger venue decided not enough tickets had been sold and just refused to open. Vive la France! Anyway, Kim was terrific. No PA, charming, wonderful songs. Half way through set 2 there was a RRRIIIIIPPPP sound from the back of the room. Everyone looked around, to see a guy opening his guitar case and getting a guitar out. Odd, we thought. If Kim has someone joining her, surely they’d do this back stage and be introduced etc. BUT NO! This was a member of the audience who had decided to jam along, which he did, for the rest of the song which Kim, being a trouper, had kept playing. From the front – Kim singing and playing a plaintiff country folk ballad – from the back, out of tune pentatonic lead “licks” from bearded twat in baseball cap.

Still unphased, Kim said “don’t be shy, come up here”. It emerged that he was french and spoke no English, plus appeared to know none of her songs, so she did a Chuck Berry number so he could blow along. Finally he fucked off and is probably dining out on it still. Toe curling for the rest of us.

I recall Paul Jones being higly miffed when someone in the crowd started to toot along with the Blues Band on his own harmonica. I couldn’t understand how he even heard him, as I was less than 50ft away and he was no match for the PA.

For a toe-curlingly awkward atmosphere at a gig I’ve witnessed nothing recently to compare with Pere Ubu’s show in Cambridge a couple of years ago. Not sure it counts though, as the tension was clearly being deliberately generated by David Thomas as some kind of counter-culture art statement (scornfully upbraiding the audience for daring to applaud at the end of a song, for example), and ended up being diffused brilliantly by a couple of crowd members who had decided they were going to have a good night out come what may, and had fun puncturing his pomposity with some choice good-humoured heckling.

I saw Wayne County at that Reading festival, and it was not deserved at all. I met him on the Gloucester Road shortly after and commiserated with him at the idiots who didn’t appreciate quality sleaze rock.

The Radiators from Space support Thin Lizzy at the Brighton Dome in November 1977. Irish punk not exactly appreciated by the rocker-audience.

Trevor Horn says “hello Bournemouth” to a 2/3 full Brighton centre during hsi ill-fated frontage of Yes in 1980.

Asked “what about women?” from the Hammersmith Odeon audience in June 1982, Frank Zappa declares the only place he wants to see a woman is “on her knees in front of him”; boneheads cheer, anyone who isn’t, or has their girlfriend with them, cringes and knows the night will not be ending as pleasantly as hoped.

After about a minute, the ‘plump’ woman in the seat in front of me started comically yawning and shouting “Boring!” between numbers. I tap her on the shoulder and ask her to be quiet, which has the reverse effect. In the end I gave her a tenner and suggested she go to the bar while Bert finished his set. She then proceeded to ‘sing’ along with Alf and be generally obnoxious to Mrs F.

I’ve never bought a seated ticket again as I’m not prepared to pay CornEx prices to be sat behind a ****wit.

I was at the Thin Lizzy / Radiators from Space gig and I witnessed one of Keith Jarrett’s tantrumettes at the Royal Festival Hall (I think) in July 1991.

A particularly awkward gig was one that a group of friends put on in Brighton in 1978 ( I think). They were a pretty good school band and had played locally, building up a repertoire of around 40 minutes of material. Artistically they were all over the place. The singer / sax player was into soul. The guitarist and bass player loved Peter Frampton, Wishbone Ash and so on. Neither of them had got punk or New Wave. The drummer was barely into his teens, which caused problems at the various pubs where they played. Despite this, they were good fun.

In an attempt to extend their fanbase (I think) they booked a club in Brighton for a one-off gig, lugging all of their equipment down to a basement dive near the Dolphinarium. Quite a busy area. They rehearsed for some time in the run-up to a Sunday night gig. What they didn’t do was spend any time or money marketing the event. Result: the only people who turned up were the band and their close friends. In an attempt to draw some people in, the close friends spent most of the gig out on the street cajoling, hassling and pleading with strangers to change their evening plans and check out this hot new band. I think we got one male German tourist and two bemused girls. Any ideas of charging these people for the pleasure were immediately forgotten.

One mildly cringy moment at the Roger Waters gig in Dublin last year.
He seemed to be very well-informed about a new piece of legislation about to be introduced to the Seanad (our upper house) by Senator Frances Black. He supported it very articulately and hoped it would be passed (it was – a bill banning the sale of goods produced in the occupied territories) He also hoped to meet with Senator Black later that night or the next day to ‘discuss the bill with him’. Cue audible head-shaking from the audience – Frances Black is, of course, a woman, member of the Black Family folk group and sister to Mary.

I’m trying to think of my most awkward gig, but Fentonsteve’s anecdote put me in mind of a story told by Eleanor Whitmore of The Mastersons.
She and husband Chris Masterson have a day job as part of Steve Earle’s Band backing Bad The Dukes (when Allison Moorer was in the band they were The Dukes and Duchesses).
Eleanor plays the violin and tenor guitar. At one Earle gig this woman walked to the front of the stage, stood in front of her and pushed the corners of her mouth with fingers, indicating Eleanor should smile, as well as shouting at her to smile. As she points out, it’s not easy to smile when playing the violin. She got rid of her with a simple Fuck Off.
It did give her material for a song, which appeared on their last album Transient Lullaby.
It’s called Don’t Tell me To Smile

The Tiger Lilies at the opening week of the Howard Assembly rooms.
Eight of us had gone and we were all dotted about the auditorium as we’d booked late.
The Tiger Lilies came on for the first song the couple next to me applauded, as the next songs were performed the woman stopped applauding but the man continued to applaud but not too enthusiastically. As the interval approached he had stopped too.
Meeting my friends at the interval I said I don’t think the couple next to me will be coming back would two of you care to join me.
‘Oh we’re quite happy where we are’
After the interval the couple didn’t return looking down my row not a single person had returned to it, apart from one person sat in the row in front of me , no one returned there either.
I guess that more than half the audience didn’t return confirmed by my pals on the balcony. All I can think is that some of the audience were friends of the Assembly rooms and had been given tickets. No one had made any protests they just politely didn’t return.
At a tribute concert to Champion Jack Dupree the performer known as Little Axe started to play after a few tunes he was accompanied by the crash of seats banging back into place as people got up to leave. I don’t know if this continued throughout his set as in true ‘News of the World’ parlance we made our excuses and left.

Echo and the Bunnymen gig previously mentioned here at Liverpool’s Royal Court Theatre in 1981. Pre gig atmosphere was, for me, unique. Like being in a football crowd they were chanting “Bunnymen, Bunnymen, Bunnymen …” to the tune of “Here we go …” . Fairly menacing situation.

Support act Wild Swans came on, nobody wanted them, singer got a bit upset and they were bottled off stage after 2 or 3 songs. Just meant we had to wait longer for the main guys, but what a show it ended up being.

We saw Davy Graham in the autumn of his years and it was a difficult night in many ways. The audience started off willing him to perform well, but the poor bloke really couldn’t play with any consistency, and as the evening wore on some people got restive and started calling out for bloody Anji. I was just pleased to be in the same room as someone who was such a legendary influence and innovator, and there were flashes of brilliance, but it was such a shame people feel they can treat artists like that. The grumbling continued as we left and I had a word….

I was at a Roy Harper gig at the 100 Club, in London.
It’s a strange venue because the floor is much wider than it is deep and it’s also a standing venue.
We were on the left so couldn’t hear the offender clearly enough to make out what she was saying/shouting, but a woman over the right persistently heckled Harper when he was speaking, as well as making a noise during songs. He did ask her to keep quiet, later to shut up, then a bit more vehemently to SHUT UP until in the end he jumped off stage and went into the crowd. I have no idea what he said to her, but we heard no more from her. It didn’t seem to faze Harper too much though, but it’s something I’ve never seen before nor since.

I had a ticket for a Fairport Convention gig at a local venue about 10 years ago. It’s a small place, about 200 seats max. I walked up to the main door, amongst a few others, to be met by Simon Nicol himself. Who proceeded to explain that the Fairport office had fucked up. Only half the band knew they had a gig that night. Dave Pegg was, it appeared, still on holiday in France. So he canvased us at to whether we wanted to watch the band as a acoustic 3 piece doing requests or for them to arrange a proper full band gig very soon

We voted for the request show. It was great.

Plus, I have a recollection of the support band at one of the Motorhead 25th Anniversary gigs at Brixton Academy taking huge umbrage with the audience. After about 15 minutes into their set he decided he fucking hated us and told us to fuck off repeatedly between numbers. Or, it may just have been their set. The noise was immense. Hard to tell.

A few years ago I went to see Jim Noir who rarely does live shows. It quickly became obvious that he, the musicians and the backing singers were all pretty drunk. Cues were missed, lop-sided grins exchanged, culminating in an apoplectic sound man coming out from behind the mixing desk to berate the band yelling “IT’S LIKE WORKING WITH BLOODY CHILDREN!”

A few years ago, the chap behind the local newspaper’s music guide started to promote free mid-week gigs at one venue in a nearby town. As I had nothing else on, I decided to attend one night, featuring an up and coming local five-piece band with both male and female vocalists.

The bar’s manageress happened to be having a boozy party with her friends that night, and took to sitting at a table right in front of the band, shout and swearing throughout the set, whilst facing away from the stage. Consequentially no-one else in the venue could actually hear the band that well, or even watch them.

Luke Haines at The Railway Club in Brighton, a couple of years ago. Haines was doing an acoustic tour, songs and readings from his autobiogs. Quite why this venue – a bar for railworkers -was picked, lawd knows. Perhaps it seemed to chime with his penchant for drab early 70s organisations and decor.
Think working men’s club, lights full on, fruit machines on the go, and bar staff talking very loudly to each other and to (presumably) rail workers who weren’t going to let a hundred or so paying punters get in the way of their night out. Eventually, after a fusillade of ‘Fucking shut up!’s from the audience, Haines walked up to the bar staff and said ‘I’m trying to fucking work here!’

Thanks for reminding me about that gig. A very very odd evening altogether. Eccentric support act too. Mr Haines turned out to be something of a trouper – not an impression I’d built if him from his written outpour.

I saw Eddie Izzard in an Auckland theatre in the early 2000s. A drunk heckler quite near the stage (but quite high up) kept shouting “Suit(s) You, Sir!” at him as he was talking. Then the heckler’s female companion started to engage in conversation with him “I’ve seen you before actually (mumble mumble drunken blather)”.

After a couple of attempts at good-natured banter with said hecklers, Izzard (and the rest of the audience) got pretty pissed off with both of them. Descended into him shouting “Will you f***ing shut up?” to huge cheers. Security, at Izzard’s on-stage request, eventually removed them.

It was still a funny show – but the atmosphere changed during this exchange and I am sure he was delighted to get to the end.

Numerous problems at a music pub I frequent, with punters who are NOT there for the music at free-entry or pass-the-tin gigs.

A couple of examples:

Two guys at a corner table near the stage during an open-mic event. They had been there for a couple of hours before the music started, having eaten and bought lots of drinks. When the music started they just upped the volume of their chat to a level that suited them but spoiled the thing for the performers and those that had come to hear the performers. Asked to be a bit quieter or perhaps move into the other bar they declined to do either. Nothing to be done about it as, it being a non-paying event and them being customers who had been there since well before it started and had spent a considerable amount of money, they felt they had every right to carry on.

At a later jazz gig at the same pub, in the main bar, a couple of Chinese/Korean/Vietnamese/something guys talking very loudly at a table about 2/3 of the way back. About 3/4 of the audience had pre-paid to see the artists (and get a discount on any food ordered) and it was customary for the organiser to come around with a tin during the interval to get money off those who hadn’t pre-booked. I was sitting just in front of them and was starting to get annoyed. A chap at the table in front of me approached them and asked them to either talk more quietly or move into the other bar. They left shortly after.

It’s a problem with unrestricted-entry gigs to which there is no real solution. If they haven’t had to pay to get into the venue, are they under any obligation to be quiet for a musical performance that they did not come to the place to see?

You could have a ruck about it, I suppose, but whichever way it goes the gig is fucked.
If the venue is dependent on people coming in and spending their money and that’s what the miscreants have done, they aren’t going to want to sling them out when all they’re doing is talking to each other. They weren’t heckling or abusing the performers or the other patrons.
At a pub gig where you pay to see a performance, you can expect to not have your enjoyment of it spoiled. Where it’s free entry, you don’t really have that right if they’re behaving as they would in any other pub.

I used to run monthly free entry gigs in a Cambridge sports pub, after the footy/rugger had finished. Those sports fans who had been there all afternoon and had consumed a skinfull would have any complaints regarding the music (or the choices of the inter-band DJ i.e. me) met with the same response:

“You haven’t paid to come in, so if you don’t like it you can f*** off”.

Sometimes it’s easiest to speak to drunks in a language they understand.

Ah, corporate functions..
We were opening a state of the art factory in Sevilla. All our bigwigs from all over the world and all our bigwig customers were invited. The Alcazar Gardens were taken over. Huge billowing Arabian-style tents full of food & wine.
The biggest tent housed a stage and well after midnight Andulucia’s finest flamenco performers appeared. They were breathtakingly magnificent especially when viewed from only a few feet away. Unfortunately only me and maybe twenty locals were watching. Behind us a heaving sea of fat drunk businessmen scoffing and drinking.
Perhaps it was not the wisest of career moves but bellowing “Shut the fuck up you fucking fuckers!” at the indifférent Philistines gained a round of applause from my new friends at the front and a kiss on the cheek from Señorita Pasquez.

Another awkward gig at a corporate function:
Back in the day the biggest food wholesale dealer in Sweden would arrange a gigantic Christmas fair every autumn where shop owners and selected staff members would go to sample everything from sausages to chocolates in the different stalls, place orders for the holidays, get lots of swag, enter competitions and at the end eat a gigantic Christmas smörgåsbord in the building’s canteen. There were two sittings, and during each sitting there’d be entertainment from a small stage in the canteen. Most years it was music, but the final year of this fair they’d invited a mediocre but well-known stand up comic to perform his set. The problem was that his gig during the first sitting could be heard through the loudspeaker system in the rest of the halls, without him knowing it, so when the rest of us got in for the second sitting and he told the exact same jokes in the exact same order, nobody cracked a smile… He got very upset and started swearing at us, saying that he’d never do a corporate gig ever again. I’m sure he didn’t keep that promise, as his popularity quickly waned when tons of much better stand-up comics emerged in the following years and he stopped getting invited on TV shows…

A festival gig that got awkward was when Kleerup performed as the first act of the first day of Popaganda some ten years ago or so, with his short-lived band Me And My Army (if I remember their name correctly).
It was early in the afternoon on a Friday, not many people had arrived yet, the sun was blazing and it was very hot, so most of the small audience there opted to stand at the back of the area in front of the stage, where there were trees giving some shade, and grass to sit on, rather than standing on metal sheeting in the heat for a band we’d barely heard of before. But the music was pleasant enough and we were all enjoying ourselves and applauding and whistling in between songs. Still, this wasn’t enough for Kleerup who, towards the end of the set, started to yell furiously at us for not being enthusiastic enough. The audience, believing until then that we were all having a good time and just getting into the mood for a nice festival weekend, looked at each other, surprised and with slightly hurt feelings.Kleerup left the stage after the gig finished, still angry with people around him fussing and trying to calm him down. Instead of shouting at his audience he should have shouted at his management and the festival bookers for giving him the worst time slot… As a result, I obstinately refused to buy his band’s album. 😉 That’ll teach him!

It was the corporate that killed the short lived and much missed Ronnie Scotts in Broad St, Brum. Always chocka with table fulls of expense account wankers shouting and drinking against each other. Nearly got myself into a number of scrapes as I ostentatiously put the “shh people are performing” cards that management vaingloriously put out onto the tables into said wankers view.

@retropath2 I went to see Nils Lofgren acoustic there. There were a couple of expense account wankers talking shit and talking it too loud. I told them to shut up but they refused saying they were members. I called security and in fairness they threw them out. Sadly it was only a battle I won, the war was won by idiots like these two who got it shut down and turned into a crappy strip joint.

Not so much awkward but unusual. Caravan touring their latter period Blind dog at St.Dunstans album came to Birmingham Town Hall. The drummer played with a bucket next to his kit.
Every so often he would throw up into it. The singer announced that he was suffering from some sort of virus but they would do the best they could.
I think he lasted for 3 numbers before they called it a night.
There wasn’t any refund.

There’s a pub here that occasionally puts on live music during the week, with the acts performing in the main bar area stood by the window overlooking the square outside. The pub also shows most live sports on various screens scattered around the same room.

I walked past the place one evening a few months ago. A local singer songwriter was attempting to perform a set of her own material, but all of the punters in the pub were more transfixed on a televised darts game being show on the TV placed right next to her!

A friend of mine did a solo gig down the road from me and they put the cricket on a giant screen right next to her. Someone was out half way through a song and everyone cheered. My pal Pip, afraid of nothing, said “I hadn’t fucking finished yet” and carried on.

Been there. Last year, as part of a day-long ‘open house’ music fest in a market town, I signed up for a solo gig to break the monotony of when my band wasn’t playing two other gigs.

It was a ‘sports’ bar, an I was surrounded by three giant screens. One showing Golf, one showing Formula One, and the biggest (behind me) showing the football. The sound was off, but everybody was looking about three feet above me. That was a long half hour.

I saw a comedian getting attacked (pushed over) on stage because of this joke:

“I talked to this young woman today who lives quite near me – she lives in a house that backs onto mine. I saw her at the bus stop. I said “do you recognise me?” She said “no”. I said “do you recognise me now?” (mimes using binoculars).

A friend of mine went to see Glenn Tilbrook doing a solo show at a local pub venue. The gig was on September 12th, 2001 – the place was not exactly packed, given events in New York and Washington monopolising people’s thoughts. Glenn walked onstage, looked around, and said “None of us are exactly in the mood for jollity given the last 24 hours, and this space is looking a bit bare – let’s all head for the front bar instead.”

Whereupon a more intimate atmosphere was created, drinks were drunk, talks were had and songs were sung; a measure of good time was had, despite the circumstances.

Saw Morrissey in Liverpool a good few years ago and during, I think the opening song, somebody threw a full pint lager that landed right on his head. Off went Morrissey. On came the lights, and that was that. Maybe not the most awkward gig, but certainly the shortest.

Have I dreamt this up, or did The Smiths-era Morrissey leave the stage because someone threw a sausage that basically landed in his mouth, and he actually bit into it, as it collided with his chops just as he was enunciating with teeth in a downward motion?

I remember going to a Ron Sexsmith gig at the Jazz Cafe in London. There were a couple of supports. The first was a guy with the most horrible voice I”ve ever heard. It was like a donkey braying, though in some sort of tune. It could go up and down a scale, but in a totally unlistenable way. As a singing voice it would be an acquired taste, and I don’t think anyone wished to waste any time acquiring it. His songs may have been quite good, but it was hard to tell.
There was little more than polite applause and he seemed to be upset that he wasn’t better appreciated, by the fairly sparse audience present for his set. He got quite sarcastic with his between song chat.
No one was so rude as to heckle and tell him to get off but there was a definite sense of relief when he was done.
Fortunately I have never come across him again.

Shane MacGowan…sometime in 2006 (?), but definitely in a smallish Manchester venue. He was delayed reaching the venue, so his band at the time, the Popes, just played instrumental versions of the set list.

Shane eventually showed up at 11 pm, inevitably very drunk, just at the last midweek trains out of Manchester were starting to leave. I saw half of the first song and then had to run to the station. One guy smashed up the ticket booth in anger, and I’m sure most people were actually exiting the venue as he was coming on stage.

In fairness, I’ve seen plenty of gigs where the singer looked like they didn’t want to be there, but a singer who had no idea he was actually there was a new one on me.

Lou Reed on the Magic and Loss Tour of 1991. As we took out seats at the Hammy Odeon (as it was) an announcement came over the PA: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen – please note that Lou Reed and his band will be playing the Magic and Loss album in its entirety in the first half of the show. In the second half he will be playing songs from New York and other highlights from his career. Thank You’.

Can you guess what happened next, dear readers?

Of course: two songs into the admittedly worthy but robust ‘Magic and Loss’. various twunts, including the extremely refreshed Aussies two rows in front of us, started yelling requests. “Play Sweet Jane!” “Walk on the fuckin’ Wild Side, mate!” even “Heroooiiinnn!”, though that may have been a passing junkie. Lou took some umbrage at our collective ignorance of the dance card and, at first, mentioned that we’d all been told what would be happening, and would be hearing the ‘hits’ later. One second after the toe-tapping ‘Goodby Mass – In a Chapel Bodily Termination’: “Rock and Roll, Lou!” “Sweet Jane!”… Lou then took a course known to teachers everywhere – he went back, sat on the drum riser and waited for us to get it out of our system. Two, uncomfortable minutes of back and forth between a clearly divided audience ensued, and finally all went quiet enough. Lou (who I should add was dressed in a ‘Prisoner’ style trimmed blazer, sported a large mullet and was playing a headless guitar that looked like Satan’s leftover chewing gum) added: ‘If you want your money back, you’re welcome to get it at the box office right now’.

The rest of the gig proceeded without incident, ending with the most perfunctory renditions of ‘Sweet Jane’ and ‘Rock and Roll’ Lou and his troupe could have done. As a 19-year-old, I thought Lou quite the grump for his display – now I’m roughly the age he was when I saw the gig and I think he was right – the punters were told beforehand. Not the best choice of setlist, but certainly a brave one.

No Tai Chi bloke but yes, ‘The Legendary Little Jimmy Scott’ as he was named and billed at all times. I quite liked him, was less impressed with the band – I’d hoped for the likes of Robert Quine, Fernando Saunders and Fred Maher (on the early 80s tour – see the amazing Night With Lou Reed DVD) but we got Mike Rathke, Rob Wasserman and the appropriately-nicknamed Tony ‘Thunder’ Smith.

I’m not sure this counts, but I saw a comedian upstairs at a pub in Islington. Camden Passage if anyone knows the pub I mean. It was like a new talent-try-out thing, I suppose, because he was clearly new at the game, but even so, he had a supportive crowd in absolute stitches. He mentioned that he was also performing the following night at the same venue, and so, convinced that I was seeing the first flowering of what would surely turn out to be a major comic talent, I took a mate along to see him.

The comedian did exactly the same routine, but was dire, and he bombed. Proper tumbleweed, audience stony-faced, my mate looking at me like WTF.

I worked out that the previous night’s crowd must have been mainly friends and relations, and that it was their good will and bonhomie that had made the night go so well: the guy was simply funnier because he was feeding off his mates, laughter is infectious etc., etc. Without that his material was laid bare as actually rather lame and weedy.

If you’ve ever been to an open mic night you’ll know that the quality is, ummm, variable. You can get an amazing people week who are virtually pro, good local players, youngsters having a go for the first time…. all good. Then you get (unfortunately these are often regulars) people who are hopeless. Can’t sing, can’t play, can’t even buy a tuner so at least their long suffering guitar is actually in tune. Consequently vast tracts of the evening are toe squirmingly unlistenable. Then there are those who “sit in” – uninvited, they grab a bass, djembe or harmonica and have at it. Invariably they are lousy players.

The evening can therefore have surprise delights (I remember the old hippy playing Dead numbers over impeccable Travis style acoustic guitar, or the young lad doing a self penned number about the day his Dad caught him having a wank) or be a torment of tuneless garbage.

Maria McKee at Shepherds Bush Empire, mid 90s, in support of her excellent but rather dark album, Life Is Sweet.

Band came on late, MM was wired with eyeballs on stalks (I think Charlie might have been to visit backstage).

Someone down the front in the audience shouted “get yer tits out” after a song or two, so MM took her electric guitar off and threw it at him. She then stomped offstage.

She did eventually come back and finish the set, which was tense but brilliant. It ran over the curfew time so we missed our train and ended up taking a combination of tube, late bus and taxi back to my car. Work the following morning was rather blurry.

I was courting the future Mrs F and trying to choose safe gigs. I think I got away with it as she loved the support act, Goya Dress.

That has reminded me of a gig when Shelby Lynne did just that. This was on her debut UK tour and was at the Civic Hall, I think, in Wolverhampton. For a well deserved 2nd encore, for which some time of clapping and stomping, was necessary, out she cam, wardrobe malfunction frenzy. Somehow she had lost her shirt, a loose denim waistcoat, unbuttoned, being all she had to cover her embonpoints. My then wife, of strong feminist leanings, was appalled and tutted noisily, averting her eyes and pulling us both from the floorspace towards the door. Of course I agreed, but, like a car crash unfolding on video, I couldn’t restrain the odd backward glance. Strangely it seemed never mentioned in the reviews, but it was a combination of excruciating and, yes, shall we say fascinating. I think she had maybe overestimated the strength of the local mild from Wolverhampton and Dudley brewery.

I saw MM at the Vortex in the mid 90s and she was quite superb, but my discomfort came from the fact that she was the one guitarist in the band, and had worn a flouncy top with very long bell sleeves which continually flopped on the guitar neck and strings. Consequently she was frequently flipping her arm up in the air to move them out of the way, only for them to flop back on the next strum. Painful to watch and not conducive to the overall arrangement either.

The first gig I ever went to was in June 1966 at the Edmonton Regal. It was a package tour topped by The Who, the Spencer Davis Group and the Merseys, with a slew of never-will-bes lower down the bill. Except…there was a certain Jimmy Cliff appearing. He was, of course, totally unknown back then and we had absolutely no idea who this was or what sort of act he was. I have no memory of what he sang, but I do remember quite clearly that the audience became quite restive and started making their feelings known by booing the poor bloke. It got to the point where Steve Winwood came on and sang with him to rescue the situation as it was getting quite embarrassing. Now, I have no idea what caused this or how it started, but later on I guessed this was racist as much as music critique, but I could be jumping to conclusions. I have often tried to find out if this was a one off or whether Jimmy encountered issues elsewhere (I even asked Spencer Davis recently, and he had no recollection, so perhaps it was hopefully the former), but to no avail.

A school acquaintance convinced Roy Harper to play the Prince of Wales Theatre in our home town of Colwyn Bay (he also convinced Roy to permit him to be his warm up act – but that’s another story!).

As was his wont, Roy waxed lyrical between numbers, providing context and anecdotes when introducing songs. Loquacious and erudite as ever, he went to great pains to explain why the song he was about to perform should not be considered anti-Muslim, before launching into a rendition of “The Black Cloud of Islam”. Of course, one individual in the audience had to take issue with it, standing up at the end of the song and shouting the odds about it being racist, many if his own friends being Muslims (clearly he’d not been paying attention to the careful introduction). Thankfully, the matter was nipped in the bud by a delightful young lady shouting at the top of her voice “Sit down you knob!”

Having overcome this incident, one devoted Harper acolyte delivered the traditional offering of a can of XXXX beer and a humongous spliff to the stage-front (to much amusement). Ever accommodating, Roy supped the potent brew and proceeded to ignite the demon weed. Moments later, a flustered theatre usherette, clearly unused to such gigs, interrupted proceedings with her torch to advise “I’m sorry but this is a no-smoking venue!”. Exactly what was being smoked appeared entirely immaterial…

On that theme back in about 1975 David Bromberg first toured Australia. Playing in Melbourne he shouted “what does someonehave to do to get a joint in this town? *volley of joints proceeds to rain down on stage *

Conversely a few years ago steve Earle and the Mastesons. Between songs this guy walks past the stage with 2 large bourbon and cokes, carefully places one at Steve’s feet, nods respectfully and shuffles off.

Steve pauses, stares at the drink then says … “actually I am an alcoholic, but I do appreciate the gesture”. .

Sandi Thom, tour about 5 years ago. Having seen her several times previously with a band playing decent blues rock and her having recorded several decent albums, we thought we’d spend another evening with her. There was no indication on posters or tickets that this tour was any different, so it was a bit awkward when she waddled on, heavily pregnant, sat in a rocking chair and told us she’d decided as she was pregnant and recently married that she’d be stripping her songs back to those she could strum and sing, unaccompanied, whilst seated. There followed two sets of barely recognisable songs strung together with stories of her pregnancy, going for scans and the like, descriptions of her marriage and new husband, that she’d been on Skype with him prior to the show and was looking forward to getting back to him in the break, and on and on. I reckon the whole experience was awkward to at least 70% of the audience, but I couldn’t say for sure as we left shortly after the start of part two when it clear that was all the show consisted of.

Was that her who had the online tantrum when her single didn’t get A-listed? Or am I mixing up my wispy wastrels?

See also the first time I saw Kate Rusby at Canterbury university, a venue with pristine acoustics so we could hear every word pin-sharp. That didn’t stop Kate spending 10 minutes explaining the lyrics of every 5 minute song. We could have gone home two hours earlier…

Oh, she was like that at Cropredy last year. I had always quite wanted to see her having enjoyed some of her records, and it started off being quite endearing…but doesn’t she bang on! Mostly about Yorkshire and Barnsley, it does get a bit repetitive – I’m sure she is absolutely lovely and brilliant company, but I’m not sure I could sit through another live gig.

What an excellent thread, worth coming back for on its own. ” at even more middle class volume”…. ace!

The nearest thing I can make to a relevant contribution is when I saw Public Enemy in 1990 and Chuck spent rather a long time moaning about the position of the monitors. Because, he explained, they helped Terminator hear what he was doing.

Freshers’ Night Bradford University Gong and Isotope.
Hadn’t realised when we got tickets that it was Freshers’ Night.
Gong came on stage at some unearthly time in the morning, possibly about two. (The lightshow as I recall was a small loudspeaker on the mixing desk with a mirror attached to the central core, a laser was shone on it and the resulting visual vibrations were projected above the band, funny what you remember). People stayed and after the gig separated into two camps depending on your view how good/bad Gong were. I recall an article in the NME at the time saying that fisticuffs were involved between both groups. We had to unfortunately trudge the twelve miles home. Fortunately really as being trainee peace loving hippies we weren’t involved.